


Brand Your Heart With Ink

by snarkydame



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Language, M/M, Sexual Content, art school Gerard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkydame/pseuds/snarkydame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard comes back from college to pick up a few last-minute things.  Pete is waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brand Your Heart With Ink

"No, that's supposed to be a goat. I'm pretty sure."

Pete squinted up at the stars, trying to make out the constellations behind the shredded clouds. "A goat?"

"With a fish tail. A Mergoat."

Mikey sounded spectacularly uninterested in this remarkable thing. Then again, it didn't really look much like a Mergoat. "It doesn't look like a goat," Pete said. "Mergoat."

Pete shook his head and stretched out his legs, letting his head fall from Mikey's shoulder to his thigh. His shirt, damp with sweat, rode up; the dry grass scratched at the small of his back. Pete twitched, grimacing. Fucking September. Even this late, in the purple shadows behind Mikey's house, it was too hot to think. He felt like he was melting.

"If I was a Mergoat," he mused, "I would still fucking hate September."

"If you were a goat with a fish tail," Mikey said reasonably, "You'd be in an air-conditioned government research lab. With a pool."

"A pool. Fuuuck, Mikey. Why aren't we down at the creek again?"

"Tetanus. Also we're waiting for Gee."

Pete tilted his head back until he could stare up at Mikey. His glasses caught the light from his phone's screen like every lab-coated villain's ever, leaving his narrow face expressionless and half-hidden. A thought shuffled through the sticky heat that hazed Pete's brain.

"You aren't fucking with me, Mikey, are you? He's gonna be here?"

Mikey sighed, and hit a few more keys on his phone before tilting it for Pete to see.

Mky, did u fnd my gud charcul sset

ys u shld pay me, yr room is txic

b bk 2 get it 2mrrow yur th best

"He's late. Do you think he found a new charcoal set?" It was a long way back here from Gerard's campus. Might not be worth the trip.

"He likes that one. The texture is just right. And your pathetic crush on my brother is getting out of hand, Pete."

Pete pulled away from Mikey's leg and stretched until he could wrap his hands around his ankles, letting the vertebrae in his back crack. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, talking to his knees.

Mikey snorted.

Pete kept himself folded, leaning his hot forehead on his jeans, until the sweat started drying on his back.

Though he listened intently for the sound of the screen door swinging open, all he could hear was the hiss and drone of traffic and the fractured songs of birds settling in for the night. And Mikey, typing on his phone.

* * *

His cheek itched. Pete scrunched his face up, and tasted dirt. Huh. He blinked, and his eyelashes caught on a curled blade of brittle yellow grass. He pushed himself up, rubbing at his eyes.

"Aw, Mikes, you woke him up."

Pete's eyes shot open. The porch light made strange shadows on his face, but Pete could tell Gerard was smirking from his seat on the bottom step. Something unknotted in his stomach, and Pete took a deep breath, tasting the hint of cigarette smoke in the dry air.

Mikey's foot nudged at his side, and Pete remembered to let the breath back out.

"Hi, Gerard." Pete knew he was grinning like an idiot, could feel it stretching his cheeks until they hurt.

"Very clever," Mikey muttered, just barely audible at his side.

"Hey, Pete," Gerard said, and Pete's smile, if anything, widened, because Gerard's cheeks were red.

Mikey sighed. He stood up, pushing his phone back into his pocket and brushing at the seat of his pants. "If you guys are through staring at each other . . . " he said, and stepped around Gerard. The metal railing creaked as he pulled himself up the concrete steps.

As the screen door whapped shut behind him, Pete finally managed to get to his feet. He opened his mouth to say . . something, but the warm night seemed to wrap itself around him, until the whole world was encompassed by the porch light, and was made up only of Gerard, himself, and the tiny white moths that circled the light. Speech seemed . . . foreign.

Gerard cocked his head, his smirk fading. He brought his cigarette up to his mouth; took a deep, solemn drag. The smoke hazed around the moth wings, glowing in the light. Pete's feet were stuck to the ground.

Gerard broke his gaze first, looking down to rub the cigarette out on the concrete. He stood up. "I'm going back to school in the morning," he said, still not looking at Pete. "Do you have to get home?"

It took a couple of tries to make his throat work, but Pete managed it. "Fuck no," he said, and followed Gerard inside.

* * *

The basement was not exactly as he remembered it (the last time, when the light from the tv glowed blue and spectral in Gerard's eyes). There were haphazardly packed boxes in the corners, spilling art supplies and tattered paperbacks, and the closet was almost empty. But the same worn sheets showed on the same unmade bed (he remembered the feel of those sheets, held tight in his fists) and Romero's Martin was still the top tape in the stack leaning against the tv.

"You want something to drink?" Gerard asked, rummaging in his closet. "Oh hey, I can use these," he said, tossing an unopened pack of sharpies over his shoulder.

Pete stared at the way his hair curled at the nap of his neck. "No, thanks," he said. "I'm good."

"Sure?" Gerard asked as he turned around, still kneeling. He waved the bottle of McCormick vodka at Pete. "Shitty vodka is still vodka."

Instead of replying, Pete tucked his hands through his belt and leaned down.

His lips tingled when he pulled back, and he licked at the lingering hint of cigarette. Gerard's eyes were blown black, his lips parted just slightly, wet and red. They were frozen there, the bottle still held over Gerard's head, Pete's hands slowly tightening around his belt.

But before he could back up (apologize, run away), Gerard dropped the vodka. The bottle clunked against the floor and rolled away.

Gerard surged up from his knees, nearly cracking his head on Pete's jaw. His hands clenched on Pete's collar and he kissed him, all heat and hunger. Pete swayed back, losing his balance as he struggled to get his hands loose, but Gerard just walked back with him, legs tangling with Pete's until they both fell across the bed.

Pete tugged his hands free with a muffled fuck, and Gerard laughed into his kiss as Pete grabbed at any part of him he could reach. Gerard tucked a hand beneath Pete's knees, pushed him further up the bed until his feet weren't touching the floor and Gerard could crawl on top of him, crouched between his legs.

Pete wished for more hands. He needed to touch all of Gerard, all at once. Right now. He could feel the heat of Gerard's hands through the thin (but frustratingly stubborn) cotton of his t-shirt. They burned like brands, and he wanted them on his skin.

He pushed Gerard back, reluctant, loathe. Gerard looked down at him, red cheeked, wide eyed, and Pete whipped his shirt over his head so fast he almost got his face stuck in it. Gerard helped him with the final tug, and tossed the shirt onto the floor.

Pete reached for him again, but Gerard put a hand flat on his chest and pushed him into the mattress, staring.

"New ink?" he asked, voice hoarse.

Pete's skin was twitching. It felt like there was an electric current running through him, centered on Gerard's hand, burning right through him, down his spine, all through his veins. His toes curled.

"While ago," he managed. He didn't recognize his voice.

Gerard traced the cracked bat wings with his free hand. Pete's cock jumped – his zipper was quickly getting really fucking inconvenient.

Gerard bent down, pressed an open mouthed kiss to the skull in the bat's heart – his breath was hot and wet and Pete's pulse went uneven.

"It's perfect," Gerard murmured, and fucking licked at the tattoo. Pete tore his gaze away and bit his lip, hard, to keep from coming in his pants. He stared determinedly at the ceiling.

Gerard licked down, then, following the ink. He mouthed at the edge of Pete's boxers, and Pete fisted his hands in the sheet. It was so thin he could still feel his fingernails, digging through the sheet into his palms.

Gerard moved his hands then, featherlight across his skin, until he could tug at Pete's belt. The buckle felt like ice against Pete's super-heated skin. His gasp of shock turned into a sob of relief when Gerard got his zipper down. He jerked his hips, letting Gerard tug his jeans down, not quite to his knees.

Gerard mouthed at his cock through his boxers, until he could work its length through the gap and wrap his hand around it.

Pete couldn't help it – he had to look when Gerard kissed the head of his cock, lips soft and gentle, while his hand held him tight.

Then Gerard looked up, and his eyes were wicked. He wrapped his tongue around Pete's cock and Pete could only curse, helpless. Loud.

He curled towards Gerard, hands freeing the sheet to tangle themselves thoroughly in Gerard's hair. He kissed the top of his dark head, and his lips trembled as he did.

"Gee, Gerard, god," he panted. He felt broken – his joints didn't connect the way they should. Gerard just hummed, pressing his free hand against Pete's tattoo, and Pete felt the tip of his cock against the soft skin of Gerard's throat, and he fell apart completely.

Gerard was still licking his lips when he caught Pete in his arms. Pete pressed his head against Gerard's shoulder. His hands were still tangled in Gerard's hair, and Gerard came down with him as he laid Pete back against the mattress. He nosed at Pete's jaw until he could breathe again, murmuring words he couldn't hear through the roaring in his ears.

Pete's thighs were trembling, but he could feel the way Gerard was humping the mattress beside him – tiny, spastic movements like he was trying not too. Pete turned on his side, as best he could without any working muscles, and clumsily bumped Gerard's cheekbone with his nose before he managed to kiss him properly.

"Gee," he said, once he could speak again. "Fuck, Gee, fuck me."

Gerard went entirely still. Pete pulled back, nervous, but Gerard took a breath then, and his whole body shuddered. He pushed at Pete until he was on his back again, and leaned over him, studying his face.

"You sure?" he asked, and his hands kneaded at Pete's shoulders.

"Surer than anything. Anything ever."

Gerard groaned, and hid his face in Pete's chest. "God," he said, voice shivering on Pete's skin. "God, you look . . ." And then he was up, on his feet, and tugging at Pete's sneakers. The laces were knotted, and Gerard fucking snarled, yanking at them. He threw them all the way across the room when he got them off, and yanked Pete's jeans the rest of the way down, boxers with them.

He stood, almost as if he was uncertain, staring down at Pete. His eyes caught, again, on Pete's new tattoo, and something hungry flickered through his eyes. Pete could see his cock jump beneath his jeans.

Gerard stripped like it was a race, stumbling back to the bed still kicking his pants off his feet. Pete surged up to meet him, reveling in the touch of his skin, the slick slide of his sweat. Gerard groaned, and Pete bit at his lips, suddenly shivering, frantic.

"Wait, wait, dammit . . ." Gerard fumbled at the drawers beside the bed, throwing things out to hit the floor and scatter, not looking. His breath hitched when he found the bottle of lube, and Pete realized he was muttering hurry hurry fuck me please into the side of Gerard's jaw.

Gerard's fingers trembled, slick and cold, as he touched him. God, so slowly. Pete whined, squirming, and Gerard groaned. "You're so fucking. . . so fucking . . . " but his voice broke and scattered, words lost as Pete swallowed them, kissing him. He couldn't stop kissing him.

Gerard's hand steadied, his fingers sure and gentle. Pete sank over them, relishing the burn, the stretch. And then they were gone, and Gee was fumbling a condom over his cock.

Gerard's uneven breathing matched his own now. He gripped the back of Pete's thigh, lifting his leg over his left shoulder. Pete ran his heel along his spine, feeling it flex.

"Gee, now, fucking now," he said, cupping Gerard's face in his hands, and Gerard's cock was thick and heavy and there, and Gerard was so slow, so careful Pete could scream if he could catch his breath.

But finally, finally, with a groan Pete could feel throughout his body, Gerard pushed all the way in. He rocked there, and Pete relearned how to breathe, how to think. Then he was moving, and Pete forgot all over again.

He was babbling – he could hear the words, but they made no sense. Waves of words, half of which were Gerard.

Gerard's hands were tight on his hips (god, he'd have bruises), his fingers flexing with every thrust. He licked at Pete's throat, pressing his tongue to the pulse that jumped wildly beneath his jaw.

Pete could feel his cock, hard again, leaking pre-cum against Gerard's soft stomach. Strangely clumsy, he wrapped a hand around it, trying to time the snap of his hips to Gerard's and mostly failing. He felt like Pinocchio, all his strings cut loose.

And then Gerard's hand joined his, and the rhythm steadied. He felt his voice through his skin, saying come now, now, Pete and he shuddered through his release, felt it hot and wet against his belly, smeared across his tattoo. Gerard followed him over, biting at Pete's collarbone.

They lay tangled on the bed, until Pete no longer felt like his heart was trying to escape his ribcage, and Gerard's breath came slow and easy. He moved off of Pete just far enough to pull off the condom, knotting it halfheartedly before tossing it vaguely in the direction where there might be a trashcan.

He snuggled back into Pete then, his left hand absently tracing the lines of his Pete's tattoo. "Stay," he said.

"You couldn't make me move with a pitchfork," Pete said. He didn't think he could move, even if he wanted to. And god, he didn't want to.

* * *

Pete woke up before Gerard, reluctantly sliding out from under his arm. He stumbled naked to the bathroom and pissed with one hand holding tight to the vanity. His knees felt weak.

He stared blearily at himself in the mirror, washing his hands.

He wiped his itching belly off, tossing the washcloth on the floor with the rest of the towels, and leaned in the doorway for a moment, looking at Gerard. He'd curled into the warm spot Pete left when he got up, but he was still snoring softly. One arm, so pale it almost glowed, lay on top of the blanket.

Pete started back, but stopped short as his bare foot knocked against something on the floor. The pack of sharpies Gerard found last night. He picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand as he considered Gerard's bare arm.

Gerard would be leaving in a few hours. Heading back to school. Without him.

He wanted to mark him, before he left. Wanted something he could pretend was permanent.

He knelt on the bed, careful not to wake Gerard.

The sharpies were the thick kind, wide tipped. He winced as he tore the cardboard backing off, and again as he popped off the lid of the marker he picked out. But Gerard didn't wake at the noise.

Pete leaned down and kissed his elbow, gently, and set to work.

The ink looked shockingly dark against Gerard's skin. Pete wrote slowly, carefully, strings of words that meant you're amazing and you're beautiful and don't forget me when you find your wings. The words wove around themselves in chains, all the way down Gerard's arm, and ended just above a tiny drawing of a bat, cracked wings curved around a heart and skull.

Pete capped the sharpie and kissed each dark word he'd written.

Then Pete got up and found his clothes, got dressed. Left Gerard asleep in the bed and walked up the stairs.

* * *

Mikey was in the kitchen, wrapped around his cup of coffee. His face was still, expressionless, as he looked at Pete.

Pete felt like he'd left all his words downstairs, written on Gerard's skin. He met Mikey's eyes, mute.

Mikey turned away, and Pete felt a strange ache in his chest. But Mikey was just filling up a second cup of coffee. He held it out.

After a moment, Pete took it.

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the no_tags challenge on LJ -- my favorite thing, every year. :D
> 
> Prompt #5 -- Pete/Gerard, ink on skin
> 
> beta work done by L, again -- I PROMISE I won't send you anymore last minute bandom works to read over! Pinky Swear, this time. ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters are loosely based on the public personas of real people -- they belong only to themselves, and I intend no insult nor harm to any of them.


End file.
